


Flebo

by NightTimeRush



Series: Shadows Start to Sing [2]
Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Gen, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, detailed descriptions of panic attacks, emetophobia warning, lowkey self harm through a very hot shower
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 01:17:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20183854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NightTimeRush/pseuds/NightTimeRush
Summary: Vergil gets sent to Fortuna, so he may begin to heal, and find his place in the world.Until he starts delving in things he shouldn't meddle with, and makes one interesting mistake.





	Flebo

**Author's Note:**

> I had to physically stop myself from posting a 9k chapter right off the bat. Instead, have this slightly shorter one, lol
> 
> These will be linear snippets of Vergil's life in Fortuna. They will follow an overarching plot as well.
> 
> Please please please read the warning tags.
> 
> This fic contains: detailed descriptions of a panic attack, and a warning for emetophobia, although not particularly descriptive.
> 
> I will be adding warnings as I post chapters, so please make sure to check them at every update! This fic will deal with very heavy stuff.

Vergil wakes in a cold sweat. 

His shirt is soaked through, the damp material sticking uncomfortably to his overheated flesh. The sheets beneath him coiled tightly around his legs, the fitted corners pulled, exposing the mattress beneath. The pillows are no longer within reach, strewn across the floor gutted and oozing bits and pieces of what once stuffed them.

He hasn't a clue as to where he is, he realizes once he pries his eyes open; and the air is stolen from his lungs in one ragged, panicked exhale. _ He doesn't know where he is _, doesn't immediately recognize his surroundings. The dream -- the nightmare, he cannot recall it either, not promptly, but he instinctively knows it has occurred, its touch as cruel as Vergil feels violated. His skin is prickling with goosebumps at the raw wrongness and disgust that propagates through his very bones, the primordial fear that washes over him like icy bath water. He pushes himself upwards, his breaths coming in short aborted gasps, fumbling to get his knees beneath him so he may hastily push himself into a sitting position.

Before he can even begin to untangle himself from the mess of sheets, he gags, then heaves violently. Emptying the contents of his stomach upon the bedding, delirious from the sudden shift in cognizance. Of being abruptly thrust into the world with the momentum of the immeasurable _ fear _ left over from his unconscious state. 

A cough tears through him, then another, till it eventually develops into a fit, and he's not certain it won't tear another round of gagging from his tired body, his stomach already twisting and contracting trying to expel _ more_, when there isn't any.

The prickle of tears that form at the corners of his eyes burns in a way Vergil is intimately acquainted with, building until they threaten to spill down his face. At the strain, at his incredibly compromised emotional state. Vergil swallows around a mouthful of saliva, inhaling slowly, shaking in the attempt to recenter himself. To calm the growing panic that's crawling its way up his spine, down his limbs, numbing his fingers, his toes. The room spins, the edges of his vision darkens slowly -- quickly -- he doesn't know. Rationality eludes him, his hyperventilating jumpstarting the body's self preservation breakers, as it tries to shut down on him. _ But he won't let it. He refuses. _

Instead he _ breathes _again. And then again. And again. As many times as it takes. For his hearing to come back. For the room to slow down. For the blood to course through his fingers once more.

This _weakness, _he's above it. It's already been dealt with, purged from his very being. Released from his dying, broken body, under his mother's watchful gaze, his father's stern eyes. His little brothers mocking stare. _So why._

_ Why now. Why like this. _

There's a sound, from his left, he thinks. Something moving at the extremity of his peripheral. _ Someone's here. _

Yamato.

Where's Yamato.

" -- ad! Dad!" 

He needs her -- where did he put her, he can't remember. He can't remember but he _ needs her. _

There are hands reaching for him, the tug of sheets around his ankles as he's wrestled free, the grounding touch of kin placed atop his shoulders. But the desired effect is just the opposite, forcing Vergil into fight or flight rather than placate the thrumming anguish that demands restitution -- for something has been taken from him, and he will raze the Underworld down to the last circle of Hell to get it back. 

_Only cowards did not stand their ground. _ He'll fight. He'll always fight, with or without Yamato by his side, he will claw, bite, struggle till he can't anymore. He will writhe and pull, the refusal to submit the first and foremost self imposed law he lives by, the only thing that has assuaged the fear of death as he forged ahead through a path that constituted of decades worth of being torn apart, and stitched back together in all the wrong ways.

The smell of blood that hits his nose is not his own, of this he is certain, of this he will drink from until his demon blood burns through the chains that hold him. Until it consumes the weakness that has haunted him from the day he was brought into this world, thrust upon him by a mother he loved dearly, but that had left him with the worst curse of all. A pained sound follows, but the source does not align with that of the blood that spills freely. No, it takes Vergil a horrifying moment to realize _ the sound was his own. _ Uttered from trembling lips, as he kicks his legs, in an attempt to free himself from the remaining grasp of coiling, frigid metal.

"Vergil!"

Vergil stills.

Slowly, he twists his head, pale, frenzied blues meeting equally pale eyes. 

"Christ dad -- Vergil," there's worry in the kids voice. As Nero regards him for what he is. A shattered, disgusting mess of sweat and sick.

Nero. 

_Nero. _Because this was his home, wasn't it. They're in Fortuna. This is the guest bedroom. Vergil's assigned room for the time being. He remembers now. 

"Nero…?" He absolutely _ despises _ the way his voice cracks, the way his breath laces with the word, the name, incredulously. _ Hopefully. _

Nero is the one touching him. Hands reaching, snaking around his torso, beneath his arms to get a good hold on him. Lifting him up and off the bed, away from the mess on the sheets. Humiliation rears its ugly head within Vergil, baring its fangs in warning, at the partial Devil touching him, whilst Vergil is currently in the clutches of _ weakness. _

He can feel the undignified scream of his instincts reeling in self preservation, the air around them thickening with the cloying, encompassing chime of _ power_, as Vergil's Trigger begins to manifest. 

"Fuck -- come on old man, cut it out before I drop you in your own sick!" 

Vergil growls, with an echo of something inhuman. "Unhand me!"

And Nero does so. Directly onto the hard wooden floors. 

"You need to _ calm down._" 

He knows. Vergil _ knows. _ He's been _ trying. _ He does not need this _ child _telling him so. "Yamato," he rasps instead, "where's Yamato-" 

"Its right here -- shit, dad, what the hell happened --"

"Give _ her to me. _"

The polished wood of her sheath nearly slips through his fingers, when Nero shoves the devil arm into his awaiting grasp. And Vergil clings onto it like a lifeline, the solid feel of his sword beneath his fingers enough to slowly begin ushering the cold, icy panic from his insides. 

The room around them grows silent, the sound of Vergil's quick breathing the only thing that echoes through the space, as he tries to get ahold of the reins on his self control once more. Assessing his surroundings, the situation in its entirety, now that his head is clearer, now that the oxygen has finally reached his lungs as Vergil sucks in every breath with renewed vigor.

"Are you going to tell me what that was?"

No. Vergil will not. "It does not concern you." He snarls. His voice is hoarse, and his throat burns something awful.

The boy clicks his tongue, annoyed. Vergil doesn't care. He merely wants to be left to himself. So he may banish the vivid imagery of dust covered furniture, the echoes of his own loud breathing bouncing off the inside of metal. The smell of rotting flesh, as the corruption spreads through his veins, eating away at the human part, twisting his Devil. Nero's eyes scorch through him, as Vergil collects the remaining shreds of pride and dignity he can salvage from this. Swathe his mind in the comforting allure of detachment. 

"That looked like one hell of a nightmare." 

"I said- "

"Yeah yeah, I heard what you said. And you can shove it."

"As crude as ever, I see." Vergil says, dryly. 

"Big words for someone who smells like puke. I'm starting the shower." Is the only response the boy deems to offer. Giving Vergil one last disdainful once over, poorly concealing his worry, before turning and making his way out of the room, his footsteps echoing down the hall towards where Vergil knows is the bathroom.

One glance down at himself tells him he's in dire need of one. And the sight that greets him makes his face scrunch up in disgust. 

Carefully, Vergil sets Yamato down on the surprisingly clean wooden floor. Away from his damp shirt, where it was pressed against moments earlier. The sword far too precious to be sullied by the product of his failings. His eyes drag across the room, till they eventually land on the puddle of blood before him. _ Nero’s blood. _That had seeped from the wounds beneath Vergil’s claws, when he had gripped onto the boy in a blind panic. And it stirs something within him, something akin to remorse, guilt. Concern.

The creak and squeak of an old metal knob being turned reaches his ears, followed by the chime of rushing water. With a sigh Vergil reaches for his Devil Arm again, pressing the tip of her sheath into the floorboards, and himself onto the hilt, an aid in maneuvering himself upright reminiscent of a cane. 

He supposes he should get to it. Focus on the task at hand, _ move forward_, rather than dally with the past.

His bare feet feel clammy against the floor, leaving behind footprints like fog on glass as he steps out of the guest room and into the hall. The steam leaving the bathroom is immediately visible, even from here, and Vergil is suddenly filled with longing. One hand already reaching to remove his shirt, modesty be damned as he stumbles his way down the hallway, Yamato hitting the ground with a dull sound every couple of steps.

Nero is placing a folded clean towel onto the counter when Vergil enters. "I'll be outside, if you… Need me." He informs, careful not to meet Vergil's eye. Averting his gaze in what might be a show of respect towards Vergil's privacy.

"I do not need a _ babysitter." _

"I'm not trying to babysit you- fuck, whatever, I know better than to argue with your stubborn ass."

And just like that, he's gone. Shutting the door behind himself. Leaving Vergil to his own devices. _ Finally. _

He quickly strips himself of his remaining clothing, kicking it into a pile for the time being. A problem for later, when he’s regained himself enough to care. Yamato gets gently placed against the wall by the tub, within reach. Within sight. His hands go to the metal knobs before he’s even entered the stream of water, harshly turning it all the way to Hot, till it can’t go any further. He will burn it all away like ritualistic fire upon his flesh, cleansing him of any remaining phantom pain. Any lingering fear, any doubt, any feeling of powerlessness.

When he steps in, the water is hot enough to make him hiss at first, leaning forward against the tiled wall, head dipping down low between his shoulders, as his now damp hair sticks to his face. The skin at his nape prickles, before going numb under the steady scalding spray. And it feels like absolution.

____

"Yeah… no he- yeah it was bad, he blew chunks on the sheets, hyperventilating kind of bad,"

When Vergil exits the bathroom, pink skinned but much calmer and collected, he's met with Nero's voice, sounding from the floor below. When no one answers the boy, Vergil realizes he must be using the phone. 

"I've tried to get him to calm down- I personally handed Yamato to him myself, and you _ know _ how adamant I am about the asshole walking around the house with the damn thing attached to his hip like some- some-... I know. I know that already!"

The subject of said phone call is not one Vergil cares for, however.

“I just- I don’t know what to do with him. He’s fighting me every step of the way-” Nero pauses, before hissing into the receiver. “I do _not _ sound like the parent! Have you _ met _your brother? He’s impossible-”

The wooden planks do not make a sound, as Vergil descends the stairs, following Nero's voice through the house like a beacon giving away his current location. He's using the phone mounted on the wall in the hallway, the one beside the kitchen. It must be Dante, on the other side of the receiver. Who else would meddle with such unyielding stubbornness. Who else would Nero report back to, as if Vergil were some sort of child requiring a report card on his behavior, and Dante their superior.

"Uh- hey, I'm gonna have to call you back- yeah no. Yeah- _ no _ I am not telling him that! Good _ bye_!"

The phone gets slammed back into the plunger, cutting the call short. Then the boy turns, pale blue eyes meeting Vergil's own. He must be more in tune with his Devil, now that he has unlocked his Trigger. Must have sensed Vergil coming down, getting closer.

"You look better." He says, after another once over. "Glad to see the shower helped."

It's awkward, just as all their conversations tend to be. Vergil has learned to deal with it, masking his unease beneath carefully crafted detachment. 

"You were speaking to Dante." A statement, not a question. 

"Uh, yeah." The boy reaches a hand upwards, fingers to his brand new flesh arm combing through his cropped white hair. "He just wanted to know how things were going, is all."

Ah, so it was Dante who had initiated. So a report not only willingfully handed over, but a demand for one, too. By none other than his brother, at that. Dante doesn't trust him, that much is clear. Vergil has been here for three days tops, and his brother has already called twice. More, Vergil is sure; there are bound to be conversations he has missed, too inattentive or otherwise preoccupied to eavesdrop. And given the circumstances of… his return to the overworld, he does not think Dante's concern to be too far fetched. Much to his displeasure. 

"You told him about the- …" Vergil pauses, the unuttered word on his lips, the refusal to acknowledge it ever present in his mind. His pride too suffocating to lay himself bare before his estranged son.

Luckily, Nero does it for him. "The nightmare- yeah." His gaze is cast sideways, downwards, seemingly engrossed by the cracked wood beneath his feet. The boy knows to have, possibly inadvertently, overstepped. Vergil will allow him the benefit of the doubt. Under the acknowledgement of the concern he can see worm its way across the kids features. So similar to Dante's. And yet, more open, unguarded. Untested by years of grief and mourning. Still naive and genuine.

Apparently, Vergil has taken too long to reply, Nero taking the burden of ushering them out of the cloying awkwardness onto himself. "He was just checking up on you. I told you he _ cares _ about you. So you might as well get that through your thick skull. Make the process smoother for everyone."

It makes Vergil softly snorts at the notion. He already knows Dante cares. Sometimes to the point of absurdity. Such as jumping first into Hell, a blatant attempt to wrestle his way back into Vergil's life, when Vergil could have taken care of the demonic roots on his own. Sealed the gaping breach to the underworld himself. 

He does not _ need _Dante to care. Never has. He's lived without his brother for far too long to be hindered by such human needs, human comforts. Forced to a life that only left room for basic necessities, such as food, and rest, and blood, keeping him alive as he scraped by, living on a day by day basis. Preparing, for the eventuality of getting caught. The promise of pain should he fall within the same grasp that had torn his family apart.

_Lies,_ utters the voice within him. _ I wanted to be protected and loved, _ echoes from the darkest, abandoned and hallowed out parts of the very back of his mind. Once sealed tightly, and now precariously torn open once more, brought on by the remerging of _ V _ within his psyche_._

Vergil frowns, swallowing back the acidic bitterness of the fresh bile that threatens to spill from his lips. "I know." He settles on, watching as Nero lifts his gaze from the pavement to observe him with skepticism. There's hope in the boys eyes. The very same he had worn like armor when he had stopped them from killing each other atop the Qliphoth. Vergil will allow this, too. 

"You sure don't act like it."

"Dante and I… have always had a complicated relationship." A truth not even Vergil can deny. "I don't expect you to understand." 

"Nothing complicated about wanting to stab your twin. Sounds pretty straightforward to me. Family shouldn’t want to murder each other, you know."

The statement takes him aback, eyes razor sharp with intrigue. "How very… _ human_, of you to follow such a line of though." Vergil muses out loud. “I promise you demonic customs are much more complex than you may think-” He pauses, for just a moment, before quickly amending with an interest and desire for knowledge for the mere sake of knowledge he hasn’t felt since he was a child. “Or, perhaps they are much more simple than any of us may think. Demons are interested in very few things, after all. Blood, power… Reproduction.” 

Nero makes a disgusted face, obviously not wanting to hear anymore. Shame, it’s part of the boy’s DNA as well, no matter how much Nero carries on living as if he were fully human. “Humans are much more complex.” Vergil admits, with an ease that catches him off guard. Maybe he can do this after all.

There is no malice in his voice. His tone holding nothing more than a hint of curiosity. His son was raised by humans, after all. Hadn't reached full demonic maturity by Triggering for the first time till not very long ago, wasn't even aware of his demonic heritage possibly until the Savior incident. Perhaps even later, when Dante had sprung their family relation onto the boy in a time of crisis. A reality him and Dante had lived with since they were children, had not been Nero's till he had reached human adulthood. 

"You're half human too, jackass." 

Vergil raises a pale brow at Nero's offended tone. Unmoved by the jab that once would have sent him into a fit of rage. "Yes, it would appear so." The corner of his mouth lifts in a lopsided smirk at the boys expense, when Nero's expression turns sour. 

"Then _ act _ like it."

"I think I've done enough of that, in my honest, _ humble_, opinion." 

To his displeasure, he's discovered that he does, indeed, retain many of V's memories (as he’s retained many of Urizen's.) He recalls the whirlpool of fear, desperation, _ weakness_, and regret. He recalls his white knuckled grasp on the metal cane he so dearly needed, nothing but a makeshift, temporary fill in for Yamato. _ Never a replacement, for Yamato was one of a kind. Precious and irreplaceable. _Interestingly enough, the desperation had been mirrored in his more demonic half, as well. 

Nero looks weary, probably unexpecting the playfulness. It just serves to amuse Vergil even further, his smirk widening as he moves to walk past the boy, “Do tell Dante to mind his own business, the next time he calls.” Vergil pauses. “I’m not currently there to take care of his expenses, or bills for that matter, I’m sure he has a lot of work to do.” He says, over his shoulder, before disappearing into the kitchen. Leaving Nero to huff where he stands, eyes trailing to the phone on the wall in consternation. 


End file.
